


Wandering Through the Night

by zeldadestry



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-16
Updated: 2006-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:37:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wondered what it was that kept her out until the morning, long after her work was done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wandering Through the Night

Was it the soul that made him wander? He wouldn't have bothered to snag one if he'd known what a pain in the ass it'd be. He'd spent a century roaming the night, but before it was always to feed, whether on blood or the mayhem and chaos of a great punk show. Now, he was driven out of the house by an inescapable introspection. He had to get away from the memories that gathered when he was still.

He moved slowly across the long grass field. Ahead of him, the Slayer was perched atop a high brick wall. He wondered what it was that kept her out until the morning, long after her work was done. He didn't feel the cold, but the days had been getting shorter and he noticed that when the wind blew, she pulled her hat down over her ears. He was still fifty meters from her when her pale face turned to peer at him over her shoulder. "What do you want, Spike?" she called. Her voice was angry, but only around the edges. A melancholy undertone kept him on his path. He had a feeling she shouldn't be alone.

"You have the hearing of a cat, Slayer." He didn't need to raise his voice. She would hear him as clearly as if he were beside her.

"I've got brand new combat boots and I'd love to break them in on your ass, so call me Buffy, ok?"

"It's a sign of respect. It's what you are."

She swung around to face him. "It's my job. That's all." Her fixed eyes made him nervous as he approached her. She always made him nervous. When he reached the wall, he stood below her, looking up. After a shameless display of groveling, she rolled her eyes at him and beckoned with her finger. He was embarrassingly grateful as he climbed up to join her. She turned around again and he followed, to see that she had been watching the moon, a low white crescent against the starless black sky. After they had been still for a moment, she said, "The way the wind was blowing, I could smell you before I heard you."

"What do I smell like?"

"You smell good, for a vamp."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You smell like cinnamon, which is yummy, but there's always a stank on any vampire."

"I do not stink," he growled.

"It's not your fault, Spike. It's logical. You're dead and you smell like death."

"You're saying all vamps smell?"

She smirked. "All the ones I've met, yeah."

"But it can't be too revolting, or you wouldn't be able to get near me."

"No, it's not revolting, exactly. It's just sort of musky and dirty and strong. I dunno. Dawn always says you smell good, so maybe it's just me. Maybe it's just another bizarro slayer power."

"How long have you been sitting here?"

"I only killed eight vamps tonight, and nine's my lucky number, so don't give me any bullshit."

"I know you've been drinking. I can smell it."

"Fuck you. Did you drink today?"

"Same as any other day."

"So, yeah. Fuck off."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"The part of the night when we pretend we're buddies is finally here. Let's get it over with."

"I am your friend, whether or not you choose to accept my friendship."

She laughed, loud and long. "You are so fucking earnest. It kills me. Always wanting me to play true confessions. Will it help you get over your guilt if I just stake you?"

"It's not guilt, not with you, not with Dawn."

"No?" She watched him, then, and he knew she was measuring him. He stayed as still as he could, kept his eyes on hers, and hoped she saw whatever remained worthy within him. After a long moment, her lips quirked. "No. I'm guilty, Spike."

"Tonight?"

A shrug. "Every night. I've been waiting for you."

"Why?"

She pulled a cigarette from her pocket and he brought out his lighter, cupped his hands around the flame so it wouldn't be extinguished in the wind. She nodded at him in thanks, took a long draw, then another, let her exhales out so slow, and they both watched the smoke curl. Finally, she said, "I just can't go home yet. It doesn't matter what I do, it just goes on. It never ends. I'll die and someone else will take my place and for what?"

She was too young to sound so tired, so worn. "When I first came here, you weren't anything like I'd expected."

"What did you think you were going to find?"

"I knew this guy in London named Griffin. Quiet guy, a historian, friend of Giles'."

"I know Griffin. Poor Griffin."

"He told me about how you danced. Made me want you before I'd even laid eyes on you."

"That was a long time ago. Back then, I was a stupid little girl in a push-up bra and a mini-skirt."

"I don't believe it."

"It was a long time ago."

"And now you wear a uniform." He could picture it, even when she was not in front of him. He could see the close fitting long sleeved black shirt, even in the summer, the black fatigues with a dozen pockets to carry her weapons. A scar Angelus had given her began at the outside corner of her left eye and continued down her cheek and her neck, until it disappeared under her clothes. He wondered where it stopped. "Every day, the same."

"That's right." She burrowed deeper into her sweatshirt and sighed. "It's so weird that you mentioned him," she said, and her voice trailed off. "Sorry to tell you this," she muttered. "Griffin's dead."

"What?" It couldn't be. Spike had received a letter from him, just a few weeks ago.

"Giles found out about it last week. It's hard. It's hard to keep my mind on this, when we keep losing people."

"Is that why you need a uniform?"

Her shoulders slouched forward. She was trying to close herself away from him. "It's not your business."

"Why do you always wear black, Slayer?"

"Because Johnny Cash is my God."

He snorted, but he was secretly impressed that she even knew who Johnny Cash was. She always surprised him. "You seem more like a Justin Timberlake fan, blondie."

"Once again, I ask you to please fuck off and die."

"Is it because of what happened to your," he swallowed, the word was stuck in his throat, "Mother?"

She turned furious eyes on him. "Did he brag about it? Is that how you know?"

"I'm sorry."

"Shit. We're all sorry. It doesn't change a fucking thing."

"I always hated Angelus. Although, not as much as you, I reckon."

"Do you want to have a laugh, Spike? Do you want to laugh at the poor, pathetic Slayer?" She threw her cigarette down and watched it hit the ground, a few sparks scattered into the air. "I wear black because I feel like it's my fault, like I deserved it. There's your fucking answer." She hated him for making her say it. Got to her feet and kicked at him, almost lost her balance. "You're such a fucking prick. Did you have to make me say it? You asshole," she raged, but he made no response, did not even try to stop her when she struck at him. Why was it that in the dark, which was supposed to be their element, they looked their most human? In the dark he looked less menacing. He looked like a real person. "Just forget it, ok? It doesn't matter."

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"Yeah, of course. Everyone's always sorry. He's not sorry, we know that." They could hear a car's stereo pounding in the distance, and she pirouetted once to the pulsing bass, her arms up in the air. She danced away from him, down towards where the wall ended. She reminded him of the ballerina spiraling whenever he opened a favorite music box of Drusilla's, long ago. She had reached the end of the wall, and she turned back to him. "It's a fucked up world, you know," she said, and then she leaped down from the wall, began to run away.

He jumped down, raced to follow her. "Buffy," he called out, after her, and he heard her laugh, and it shouldn't have sounded so sad. "Buffy, I'm sorry," he said again, because he could think of nothing else to say

She stopped running, waited for him to catch up. "I'll see you tomorrow." He was scheduled to watch over Dawn. "Don't be late. She doesn't like it when you're late."

"Tomorrow," he repeated. "Eight o'clock. I'll be early and I'll bring pizza from that place she likes."

She nodded, once, and he had the feeling, or the delusion, that she wanted to stay. But then she was running again, running away, disappearing into the trees, gone. Gone home to Dawn, no doubt. Gone home to grab some sleep before another day of training, preparing, before another night spent destroying, dispatching of what never should have been.

He stood there, waiting, as though he thought she might be coming back to him. What did it mean, the nights he spent with her, with Dawn? He smelled different, she said. Like death, but also like something else, something warm, something good. What did it mean, if it meant anything?

It meant nothing. He was still what he was and the sun would be rising soon. He made his way home quickly, clutching his coat around him as though pretending to shield himself from the cold he was incapable of feeling.


End file.
